Until Death
by My Beautiful Ending
Summary: Part two of the 'Let Me Love You' oneshot series. She was used to putting herself back together- she had done it so many times, she was an expert at it. But she never expected him to keep coming back. What could it mean? Harley/Joker fluff


**_Until Death_**

**What About Now -Westlife  
Heartache -Bonny Tyler  
Can't Take My Eyes Off of You- Lady Antebellum  
Airplanes –B.O.B. and Hayley Williams**

_Shadows fill an empty heart  
As love is fading  
From all the things that we are  
But are not saying  
Can we see beyond the scars  
And make it to the dawn?_

He wasn't there when she woke up.

She opened her eyes and focused on the red numbers of her alarm clock, knowing the space beside her was empty and had been for a while, since it was cool. But she was expecting that. She had come to terms with it. At least, she thought she had. Inside, her chest ached with the pressure of unshed tears that a one-night stand couldn't relieve. Scarlet hopped up on the bed with her cat-like grace and rubbed against the thin woman's side, mewing. Twyla sat patiently on the floor, looking up with understanding eyes. The blond woman rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sighed.

Blearily dragging herself out of bed, she turned on the coffee maker and stared outside at the morning sun peeking over Wayne Tower far in the distance. The cats purred, mimicking the sound of the coffee maker as they wound themselves around her ankles. She blinked, and a drop of moisture fell from her eyes. And then another, and another, until there was almost a river pouring from her soul. The coffee didn't ease her pain, and her tears only made it taste salty. Another tissue box got emptied that morning as she sat on her couch and stared at the faded roses on the wallpaper, trying to swallow past the lump in her throat.

But if there was one thing she was good at, it was pulling herself together and moving on. After all, she had done it so many times; she was practically a commuter along that road.

But she hadn't expected him to keep coming back.

The next week, she stumbled into her apartment after a long shift, soaked to the skin from the deluge that always seemed to come down after dark in Gotham. Busy hanging up her dripping coat and kicking her shoes and her failure of an umbrella into a corner, she missed the first clue –her cats hadn't come to greet her at the door. Closing the door that desperately needed another coat of paint, she flipped on the dim lights and walked into her living room to find him sitting there on her couch, calmly munching on pizza from a steaming box. For no apparent reason at all, other than his remark, "Thought you'd be hungry."

She folded her arms over her chest, because something inside her was ripping again. He had that affect on people, her in particular. "How did you get in?" she asked, staring at him lounging on her beat-up couch. His coat was over a chair, so he was just in shirtsleeves, and his gloves were off.

"Through the, uh, balcony," he said, raising his eyebrows over his slice of pepperoni pizza.

"I don't have a balcony," she said, leaning against the wall, "and your makeup is coming off."  
It was. Streaks were smeared off on his forehead and mouth, letting regular flesh-colored skin show through. He was never this careless on TV. Though she didn't own a unit, she saw the news at the coffee houses she occasionally visited. His makeup was always thick, masking his face. She supposed it was his way of letting his guard down with her; letting some of the old personality through. All she knew was, it made him look more human. And she was grateful.

"Ehh," he said, and she had no idea whether he was agreeing with her or not. "Have some." He motioned toward a box with his uncovered left hand, and she saw the flash of gold. She felt something tear and knew instinctively that it was her heartstrings ripping wide open again. Pushing herself off the wall, she moved slowly to the box and grabbed a piece, examining it.

"Why?" she asked, slowly taking a bite of the slice.

"Why wha-t?" he asked, staring at her and popping his 't'.

She just looked at him. It was all she could manage to do. That and polish off the pizza. It hit the spot, and she licked the grease off her lips and off her fingers. He hadn't gotten out any napkins or plates or anything, but that was just his way.

"Oh," he said rolling his eyes. "The guy down the hall makes passes at you."

"That was _three days_ ago," she said, crossing her skinny arms over her chest. "And I told him off, anyway." The cats peeked around the corner from the hall, their eyes reflecting the light from the lamp. Noticing that the intruder was still in the vicinity, they retreated again.

He got up abruptly. "Why?" he demanded, coming up to her faster than she had been expecting.

Instinctively taking a step back, she questioned, confused, "Why did I tell him off?" He nodded and grabbed her forearms, staring down into her wide blue eyes. For a second, she found she could ignore the scars and makeup and look past them to see what lay underneath. Perhaps the old Jack wasn't as buried as the Joker would like. "Because I'm a married woman," she said finally.

He seemed satisfied with that. "Don't you ever forget it, Harley," he said firmly before crushing her against his chest. _I don't see how I can, _she thought as she kissed him back and ran her hands through his hair.

* * *

_Change the colors of the sky and open up to  
The ways you made me feel alive  
The ways I loved you  
For all the things that never died  
To make it through the night  
Love will find you_

She'd never know when he'd show up. Sometimes he'd come and just crash on her couch or in her bed, and she'd snuggle up next to him, just wanting him to be there. Other times he'd bring food, or she'd wake up and find money on her pillow. Leery of money that wasn't hers, she stowed it all in a shoebox under her bed, telling herself that she'd only use it if she were desperate. She never asked what he had been doing when he came in smelling like smoke, or blood. Her heart wasn't sure it could deal with what she heard.

Once, she had come into her apartment and found him trying to sew up a huge gash in his shoulder. He had never been good with a needle; his face was a solid testament to that.

"Jack," she said, her tone scandalized and shocked to find him leaning over her kitchen sink cursing as blood dripped down the drain. Her heart was in her throat, beating fast, and she was had trouble swallowing.

He shot her an irritated look. She knew it was because he didn't like the sound of his name. He much preferred Joker. But there was no way she was calling him that; they had had this discussion before. She had finally settled on 'J', figuring that since both names started with that letter, he couldn't object to it too much.

Right now, she couldn't be bothered with remembering the intricate details of the conversation when her husband was potentially bleeding to death. "Let me do it, J," she said, dropping her purse and keys on the table. Tying her dishwater blond hair back into a ponytail, she accepted the needle he handed her; a little shocked he hadn't put up much of a fight. "Put pressure on the wound. Did you sterilize this?" she asked, inspecting what looked like one of her sewing needles.

He snorted. She guessed that meant no. Her blue eyes squinted in the dim light, scrutinizing his sloppy, uneven stitches. "This would be so much easier if I could see," she mumbled.

"You need better light bulbs," he said.

The first words he'd said to her, and they were about light bulbs. Typical. She wanted reassurance; she wanted him to tell her he was fine. But of course he wasn't, and he didn't.

"Don't blame my light bulbs, blame the breakers. They can't handle more wattage than that," she said, sighing and straightening. "I have to take out the stitches you already did, sterilize everything, and start over."

"That's why _your _face is prettier than mine, doll."

"_Jack,"_ she said, giving him a look. She knew her scars were straight, thin, and neat, but that didn't take away from the fact that they were all over her face.

He smiled at her, stretching his own scars. "What, _Harl_?"

"Don't _do _that," she said, moving to rummage around under the sink for the bottle of alcohol.

"Do what, Harl? _Smile?_" he smiled even wider. "I thought you liked it when I smiled."

She pushed aside grungy rags, lime-away, and pine-sol before grabbing the brown rubbing alcohol bottle. Straightening up with a hand on her back, she replied, "That was then and this is now. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

* * *

_What about now?  
What about today?  
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?  
What if our love never went away?  
What if it's lost behind words we could never find?  
Baby, before it's too late  
What about now?_

He watched as she opened a drawer to pull out scissors to cut the thread in his arm. He worked this around in his mind as she got her supplies assembled and sterilized.

She didn't want him to hurt himself.

Of course, she could have meant she didn't want him to get hurt when he ran around doing the fun things he loved; AKA, blowing up buildings, taunting the cops, and messing with the Bat Man. But that probably wasn't what she meant, given the context. She didn't want him to smile because she knew the scars hurt when he stretched them and pulled them into a smile, accordion-style.

That bothered him. Somehow she knew that it hurt. And she cared enough to tell him to stop because she didn't want him to hurt. And that was pretty much a foreign concept to him.

Of course, just because she didn't want him hurting himself didn't mean she wasn't opposed to a little pain in order to make him better. Clenching his teeth from the unexpected sting of alcohol in his wound, he growled.

She glanced up at him, and then back at her work, snipping the thread with small scissors and gently pulling the strands out of his skin. It hurt like no other, but he wasn't going to complain. His Harley knew what she was doing.

"I'm going to need you to take your shirt off," she said, thinking hard. "I can't see all of the wound through the rip in your shirt.

"Anything for you, doll," he said, smirking. Smirking didn't make his mouth hurt. Her face turned a pretty pink before returning to its normal pale color. She helped him ease the purple fabric over his shoulders and down his arm; he knew she noticed all the old scars on his torso and arms, but she didn't comment. Some things just weren't spoken about.

She threaded the needle and began her work, putting small, neat stitches into the gash on his arm. He didn't make a sound throughout the whole thing.

* * *

She wrapped some gauze around the stitches and taped the bandage shut with surgical tape. "Don't take it off, and don't take the stitches out until you come back."

" 'Until I come back'?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows.

She looked up at him, blue eyes meeting his dark ones. His eyes were the most expressive feature about him, if not the feature people noticed. That was his scarred red mouth. But his eyes spoke volumes sometimes. Insanity did not reside there, whatever people said. There might be many things wrong with him, and maybe he did have a few psychological disorders, but he was grounded in reality. More or less, anyway. Right now, his eyes were soft and brown, the eyes she had loved so much when she had married him.

"Do you want me to come back?" he asked.

"Of course I do," she whispered, placing her hands on his bare shoulders. "You're my husband." She sniffed. " 'Til death, remember?"

"I remember," he said in a low voice, giving her a look.

"You're hurt," she said in a scolding tone of voice. "No." But she let his lips kiss her breathless anyway.

* * *

_The sun is breaking in your eyes  
To start a new day  
This broken heart can still survive  
With a touch of your grace  
Shadows fade into the light  
I am by your side  
Where love will find you_

Once in a while, she actually got a paycheck from that horrible excuse for a job she had in a factory in the Narrows. And so occasionally, she had to go to the bank and deposit it or cash it, depending on just how much cash she had on hand at the time, which was usually nil, but whatever. It gave her an excuse to veer from her beaten path between the job and her apartment.

So on days like today, the one rare day in Gotham that it didn't look dreary outside and the sun was actually out, she was inside a Gotham National Bank, standing in the longest line of people she had ever seen in her life. She was just glad she was nearing the front of the line.

The inside of the bank looked like any other bank. Pristine glass windows, spotless marble or pseudo-marble floors, the cheap floral patterned chairs in the waiting area, and the bored tellers were just part and parcel of the whole bank persona. The people in the line were just ordinary people, waiting to get up to the front and get their hard-earned money from the bank.

But today was not an ordinary day.

Harley was glancing around, examining all the people in the room because she was bored and the flat screen TV was only playing the news, which she found depressing. And since she once had depression, that wasn't necessarily a good thing. She had spotted two fake hair pieces, six women with obvious dye jobs, two children who looked as bored as she did, and a man standing awkwardly under the clock, fingering something balled up in his hands.

Something plastic. Her eyes focused on him like a homing signal was attached to the object in his hands, and she paled. It wasn't noticeable, however, because her face was naturally devoid of color. He held a very scrunched up white plastic mask in his hands, and whenever he'd shift his grip on it, she'd get glimpses of color and features, like an ear or nose in comical proportions.

He was holding a clown mask.

Why was he standing under the clock?

She raised her blue eyes to the clock face and read the time –five minutes 'til ten. She took a deep breath. She could walk right out the glass door, but since he kept glancing at it, she figured someone was going to come walking through that door. Slipping under the guide rope that kept everyone in an orderly line, she walked quickly but calmly to the ladies' room. Once inside, she noticed that while the bathroom had many stalls, the main door did have a lock on it. She turned it firmly and heard the deadbolt hit home. As she turned, she noticed that the mother of the two children was in the bathroom with her kids, and all of them were looking at her.

"Something's going to happen. It would be better if you stayed in here," Harley said. The mother hesitated, and then nodded. This was Gotham. You didn't ask questions, you stayed safe, and you stayed alive. They kept staring at her, though, probably because of the scars.

The mom and her kids hid under the counter. Harley sat on top of it, swinging her jean-clad legs slowly when the gunfire started. A couple of rat-a-tat-tats, like automatics were going off, some rapid-fire stuff, and a couple of big booms, like someone was blowing the vaults up.

Just so long as no one tried to blow the door open. _Why here? Why now? Why me? _She wondered to herself, staring vacantly across the bathroom. There's nothing like knowing your crazy husband is out there blowing stuff up and breaking the law and maybe killing people only about fifty feet away from you. She sighed and tried not to give in to the tears that were choking her up.

Somehow, between the absent-minded gestures that may or may not have been symbols of some small measure of affection and the wisecracking air he had about him, she had forgotten the reality. He had killed people. _Murdered_ people. Or was murdering. Certainly stolen, broken the law, sent the city into a state of sheer panic for about a month –and she still loved him. In spite of it; not because of it.

There had to be something seriously wrong with her.

* * *

_What about now?__  
What about today?  
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?  
What if our love, it never went away?  
What if it's lost behind words we could never find?  
Baby, before it's too late  
What about now?_

Sitting in her living room with the lights off, wrapped in her red and black blanket, she stared at her front door while Twyla and Scarlet dozed by her feet. After police officers had arrived and banged on the bathroom door, she had been questioned by at least three cops. Not able to answer them, they finally sent her home.

She was just so tired of it all. The hall clock kept time, the empty, lonely ticking telling her that every second brought her closer to what she desperately did not want to say, but needed to say all the same.

She had to get all this anger, fear, and pain off her chest. She had to put it _behind _ had to _know, _once and for all, how things stood between them. She knew what he was. She did not approve or condone his actions. She wasn't sure what she hated more –the fact that he always left her or the fact that he came back later. It was an endless cycle that tore her heart to shreds, put it all back together again and made it whole, and ripped it into pieces. Over and over again. And she couldn't take it anymore.

There was a choice that had to be made. He had to choose whether to leave or be with her. And stick by his choice, once his decision was made.

_The ball is in his court, _she decided. _It's up to him._

_

* * *

_

_Now that we're here  
Now that we've come this far  
Just hold on  
There is nothing to fear  
For I am right beside you  
For all my life  
I am yours_

She heard the lock click and twist, waking her from her light slumber. Sitting up on the couch and letting the blanket fall from her shoulders, she glanced first at the pile of objects on her coffee table, and then at the worn, paint chipped door. She was ready.

He emerged from the shadows, still holding the lock picks he used to gain access to her apartment. _He always had very fast reflexes_, she mused as he just barely dodged the plate that shattered against the wall close to his head.

"_Harley,"_ he said, in an unbelieving tone. He was on the alert now, and able to get out of the way of the cup that flew at him with a lot of margin to spare. She picked up another piece of the patterned china tea set and tossed it. That time the throw wasn't anywhere near him. "_Harley,_ why are you chucking your tea set at the, uh, wall?" he asked, and she could see the cogs in his head spinning, not just trying to figure out what was wrong with her, but also what he could do tactically.

"It's a very ugly tea set," she said, and hurled two cups at once. He dodged and slipped into the kitchen, hiding himself from her line of sight.

"You, uh, wanna tell me _why _you decided to heave it at the wall?" he asked from within the kitchen.

She turned her gaze to the only other exit the kitchen offered. "I'm heaving it at _you, _not the wall."

He poked his head out the exit and swiftly retracted it as a saucer flew by. Running out low, he got too close for her to hit him properly. Long distance targets had always been much easier to hit than ones that were close up. Getting up inside her guard, he grabbed her wrists and squeezed, making her drop the china. "And just _why _are you heaving it at me?" he insisted, pulling her off the couch.

"_Maybe_ I don't need a reason," she hissed. "Chaos _doesn't,_ remember?"

"Yeah, well, I kinda doubt that," he muttered, pursing his lips.

"I can't live like this," she insisted. "I can't live with you coming and going, never knowing when you'll be here. What do you care about more?"

He raised a painted eyebrow at her. "That de-pends on what my _options _are."

"Stay with me. Or leave and never come back." She willed herself not to cry. She had to be strong right now –the kind of strong she had been when the sharks came and carved her face up. She had screamed, but they weren't screams for mercy. They were curses. And she had sewn her face up herself, with the help of some very strong drugs. In high school, she had won a gymnastics competition hands-down with some of the hardest moves out there. She was strong. She wouldn't budge until he answered.

He tilted head to the side, sizing her up, considering. Then he dipped his head and kissed her. Two seconds later, he cursed when she bit him.

"Kisses aren't answers, J," she said, shaking. "I want an answer."

"A little fight in you," he laughed. "But I was always game for that."

"Stop it Jack!" she screamed, not caring if anyone could hear her beyond her apartment walls. "For once in your life, give me a straight answer! Do you love me or not?"

The only sound that broke the silence were her deep, harsh breaths as she stared up into his face –scarred, twisted, disfigured. She didn't care. She didn't care about anything, except his answer. Her heart depended on it.

The smile dropped from his face as he stared at her. "I'm wearing the ring, aren't I?" he said hoarsely, his dark eyes staring into hers intently.

She did not respond.

"Okay!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "You want me to s_p-ell _it out for ya? Fine. I. Love. You. Period. End of sentence."

She exhaled the breath she hadn't known she had been holding and breathed deeply. "You mean it?" she whispered in a small voice, cracking the last word.

"I'm a man of my word," he replied, pulling her into his arms. "I took the vows. I still mean 'em. I love ya, Harlequin."

The dam behind her eyelids burst and she collapsed against him, sobbing tears of joy. He held her close and rocked her slowly, murmuring nonsense words to her. When she finally gained control of her mouth again, she said, "I love you. I love you, too."

The light in his eyes burned with the same sincerity and intensity it had on their wedding day. He kissed her again, and this time she didn't resist, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving as good as she got.

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